Poezja

On periphery of gestures and casts
I speak for fading integrity while a fossil
of a scream was stolen from the womb
of language.

On becoming silent, an untitled truth
shakes sensibility. Small vignettes track
the battleships of calligraphy. The sermons
wage a war.

The saints praised the puffed up sheep,
suffered the asylum of Atlantic for astral
hopes to cross the folds of virginity. Splashed
motherhood refused the onslaught of tears.

You make inadequate love, exiled in
intimacy. Blood-drowned statements
will not make to the surface of time. Century
moves not for you, not for me, not for him.


Satish Verma